


burn of sun and summer wind

by AliLamba



Series: Four Seasons [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alcohol as coping mechanism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Guitars, M/M, Some Humor, Swimming, Vacation, also just drinking for boredom, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 04:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30066345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: Zechs stared at his strawberry daiquiri with the trepidation of someone who regretted their choice. Dare he try it? It had been suggested, after all, and he was technically on vacation. Well. Highly recommended vacation. Forced vacation. Forcedleave of absence, really, because…Zechs took a sip.
Relationships: Zechs Merquise/Quatre Raberba Winner
Series: Four Seasons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009707
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	burn of sun and summer wind

**Author's Note:**

> you know what I wish it was summer. And I say that every winter. Thanks Flay for the beta *finger guns*

Zechs stared at his strawberry daiquiri with the trepidation of someone who regretted their choice. Dare he try it? It had been suggested, after all, and he was technically on vacation. Well. Highly recommended vacation. Forced vacation. Forced _leave of absence_ , really, because…

Zechs took a sip.

The overly sweet drink had him cringing before he’d even finished swallowing.

“Oh god,” he muttered, grimacing. He frowned at the drink. Then he took another sip.

The alcohol appeared barely present, which didn’t seem like quite the point. Zechs squinted through his sunglasses at the relatively empty beach. His vacation package had afforded him some ridiculous cabana something, which meant he was currently awkwardly reclining on a lounge chair at some white-sand beach beneath his own private umbrella. An attendant was within eyesight, annoyingly observant of every time he shifted his weight.

He probably should have said no to the whole ordeal. Given the choice, his ideal vacation would have been… _what_ , probably a week of solitude in a mountain cabin, or something. A private satellite orbiting Mars, where no one could hear him scream into the void or practice the guitar.

He hadn’t brought his guitar with him on this trip. Hadn’t really seemed appropriate, or something.

_“Just try to relax,”_ Major Po had pushed, forwarding the info to his phone. “ _Your flight’s in an hour. My assistant is currently ransacking your apartment for your speedo._ ”

Said assistant had met him at the airport, handing him boarding pass, suitcase, and magazines. Then she’d collected his cell phone, which he nearly actually attacked her for, except that she pulled her service weapon on him, instructions _vibrantly_ clear.

He’d read most of _Popular Mechanics_ on the journey. Then _Town and Country._ … _Celebrities in Space_ , too.

Most of the people in that magazine he didn’t recognize, but now he knew that _Loretta_ was really pissed at _Xie_ for stealing her man and had uninvited her to something, and. Also terra cotta was _out_ , and marigold was _in._

Ugh. Zechs took another sip of the drink, and was surprised to find that he was trying to drink from an empty glass.

He grimaced.

Fine. No more drink. Zechs leaned his weight more fully against the lounge chair and closed his eyes behind his sunglasses. Maybe he’d nap. That might eat up an hour of this endless day.

“ _Thank you Marguerite_ ,” a voice was murmuring, from a ways away. Zechs opened one eye. What was that, another visitor? Hmph. Well. He put a hand behind his head, trying to find a comfortable position, radiating as much _do not sit next to me_ vibrations as he could without actually shouting it.

The person was walking past, and instinctively, Zechs opened an eye to track their movement across the beach. From a distance he could see that they had nearly white-blonde hair, cut short. Slacks over sandals, no shirt – some sort of gauzy, see-through robe over everything. A tote over one shoulder, large sun hat; obviously athletic. Hmph. Some rich ninny, most likely. Zechs closed his eye as the person continued toward some other cabana some distance away.

“ _Zechs?_ ”

Zechs jolted up, half sitting as he ripped off his sunglasses.

_Who here was speaking to him._

Zechs blinked into the sunlight, seeing the stranger from a second go apparently now right in front of him. What? He was sure he was properly radiating _don’t fuck with me_ energy.

“Ha, I thought it was you.”

Zechs shaded his eyes, and the features came into focus.

Holy shit.

He was going to kill Major Po.

“ _Quatre?_ ”

Quatre smiled, bright and fond.

Oh _shit._

“It would appear that we are of a similar mind,” Quatre mused, trying to fight off his smile. “I didn’t think you knew of this place.”

Zechs clenched his teeth, planning all the ways he was going to murder Major Po and in which order. “It was…recommended to me,” he muttered, dismayed to realize his heart was still beating faster.

“Ah.”

Shit.

_Shit._

They were just staring at each other.

“Did Major—“

“Well, enjoy your stay.”

Zechs’s eyes opened wider as Quatre spoke over him. Quatre’s smile was tighter now, looking down at him, and he took a quick breath through his nose before looking away and nodding, which is when Zechs realized the attendant from earlier was standing just out of reach.

Zechs’s eyes stayed wider as Quatre turned, his flowy robe thing catching the wind, and walked back in the direction of earlier, to a spot clear on the other side of the spread of umbrellas. Zechs frowned. His heart was… Between them was nothing but empty lounge chairs. It was off season for the resort and the middle of the week; only a honeymooning couple had been present at the breakfast buffet, and it had been easy enough to ignore them.

**_Shit_**.

Now what was he supposed to do?

Zechs’ frown deepened. Right. He was going to take a nap. He tried to settle back into the chair, forcing his eyes closed again.

He wasn’t quite aware that he opened them, until he saw Quatre removing the robe. It fluttered in the breeze as Quatre tucked it into his tote bag, trading it for a vessel of…oh. Of sunscreen.

Zechs swallowed, fighting an uncomfortable memory.

He’d wondered, hadn’t he, how Quatre had been so fair? Hmph. Zechs put his sunglasses on, ignoring as Quatre began the laborious process of slathering lotion onto his skin. He started with his arms. Both of them, with the practiced air of someone who’d done this often. Then his chest, which meant leaning back, so he could get all the way down. This required some level of strength and dexterity, because he was able to rub beneath his navel and between his own shoulder blades without falling back, supporting his torso just with his lats and obliques. _Hmph_. Well, good for him, not slacking on his training. Zechs prided himself on the same, rarely going a day without exercising his body in some fashion. He’d taken up yoga in the last few months. Well. The pace of yoga usually infuriated him, so he did a modified version at double the speed, but it nevertheless suited him to some degree.

He wondered vaguely if Quatre had ever tried yoga.

Zechs scowled. Oh goodness, this was going to be impossible.

He resolved to actually close his eyes, and turned onto his side.

“ _Oh, thank you,”_ Quatre’s voice floated over, and Zechs accidentally turned.

The attendant was helping him with his back; hands floating over the broad sweep of skin and muscle.

Zechs rolled his eyes and turned away. He should have brought something to read. And now with the attendant occupied there was no one to order another drink from. Zechs frowned and glanced at his empty glass, for a minute actually considering whether to lick the insides or something. _Ugh_.

Forcing his mind blank was a bad idea, because, well, it cleared away everything but what he was trying to suppress, namely: all those memories of being back in the hangar, with the ludicrously pink nerve agent.

_Peach_ , his mind corrected. It was a _peach_ color. Honestly - similar to the shade Quatre would be if he wasn’t completely diligent with his skin care routine, which, maybe he was. Zechs twisted to look over his own torso, seeing Quatre doffing his slacks, revealing the swim shorts beneath.

Whatever.

He’d seen the man in much less than that.

Said nerve agent hadn’t left any damage that Zechs could tell, even months after the fact. The _nerve_ in question had been mostly hyper-specific to _horniness_ , really, and after a blurry twenty-odd hours they’d emerged from said hanger depleted, in both scrotum and mind. And in Zechs’s case, also very pissed off.

He’d been pretty sure he was handling, it though.

Right up until the time that someone had subbed the company coffee to hazelnut-flavored _garbage_ , and it had been a particularly bad day, and – he may have overreacted.

He may have overreacted by throwing said coffee pot across the room.

Said coffee might have splashed one of the temps.

Said temp might have complained about _workplace violence_ and _toxic masculine culture_ , and.

Well.

He was on a beach now, so, perhaps Agent Whiny Asshole could sit on nails.

Zechs realized he wasn’t going to be sleeping.

With a snarl he stood, stalked towards the ocean until he was waist-deep, and then dove in.

He wasn’t sure how long he swam, but Quatre was gone by the time he got out. And the sun was much closer to the horizon.

Hours, maybe.

His fingers were pruny.

The sun was finally setting properly while Zechs sat at the bar. He didn’t feel like eating dinner, didn’t feel like watching whatever sport program was airing on the televisions mounted for his viewing pleasure.

He was busy shredding his cocktail napkin into the tiniest pieces he could manage, when there was a presence at his elbow.

“Can I help you sir?” the bartender asked, nearly dropping the glass he was cleaning in his haste to do something.

“A gin and tonic would be great,” the presence answered, and Zechs felt a monumental amount of tension fill his body.

Which picked up an entire notch when Quatre Rebaba-Winner took the stool next to his.

“Or actually,” Quatre continued. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Strawberry daiquiri coming up right away, sir.”

Zechs offered something like a sneer. “It’s one of their specials,” he explained.

Quatre’s smile was kind in response.

“It sounds delicious.”

There was a moment of silence as they adjusted to each other. Quatre, to whatever private thoughts he was having as he perched easily on the barstool, staring blandly in the direction of the television. He’d put on a shirt, finally. And he didn’t appear to have burned in the sun. Zechs himself didn’t tend to burn. His genetic heritage always allowed him a deep, golden tan, and he usually forewent sunscreen on days he was out. Which…wasn’t often, if he stopped to think about it. It had been a long time since he’d gone swimming in open water. His family had had a lake house when he was a child, sure, and there had been opportunities here and there, but. Hm. Zechs glanced at Quatre, who caught his eye, smiling gently again, and Zechs panicked.

“I have genetic heritage,” Zechs said, and the air he sucked between his teeth after sounded like a hiss.

Quatre’s eyes went wide. “You – you do?” he stuttered, and Zechs’s grip tightened on his glass.

“I have… _strong_ genetic heritage,” he amended, and it sounded no better.

“I imagine,” Quatre agreed.

“I don’t burn in the sun.”

“Oh right.”

“You do.”

“I do?”

“You – you would burn.”

“I – yes.”

“You use sunscreen.”

“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Zechs?”

Zechs stopped talking. He took a breath, looked at his drink.

“No.”

Okay. Maybe he needed to be drunker.

Quatre released a breath. The bartender arrived, delivering Quatre’s matching cocktail. Quatre thanked him with a nod, but didn’t take a sip.

“Are you…” Quatre started to say, and Zechs’s quick glance in Quatre’s direction found him worrying his lower lip. “Are you doing okay?”

Zechs didn’t know what to make of that question. _Doing okay?_ He was the Lightning Count _of course_ he was doing okay. He was in peak physical health, he’d practically paid off his mortgage, he had a healthy stock portfolio and a car he forgot where he parked and –

“I’m doing…fine,” Zechs finally said, with a soft sneer. From the corner of his eye, he could see Quatre nodding, staring at his drink.

“Yeah,” Quatre agreed, and he put the straw to his lips.

They had dinner together, because an attendant found them and made some assumptions that neither had any apparent energy to correct, because they knew each other, and they both needed to eat, and the food was available, and the restaurant was empty save for that loved up couple from earlier. They ordered fish because it was one of the first things on the menu, but neither really seemed to want to eat it, both on their fourth or fifth drink by the time the plates were cleared.

Zechs blamed Quatre. He was the one who ordered the wine. And he blamed the waiters, who kept refilling his glass.

“So…how are you doing?”

Zechs looked over, from where he’d been staring at the distance. He was feeling moderately sloppy in his movements, but with nothing to do but go collapse on his bed later he supposed it didn’t really matter.

“What?”

Quatre was thumbing the condensation on his glass of wine.

“How’d you doing?”

“I’m doing fine. I mentioned my stock portfolio.”

Quatre nodded. “Yes, I know. Just…just in general, I suppose. Since…since everything.”

Zechs shifted in his seat, reaching for his glass of wine as well. “I’m fine.”

When he put the glass down again, Quatre was looking at him, flat. Aloof.

“Are you?” he asked, almost…cruel.

Zechs swallowed. “Of course I am. It was nothing. It was – a protocol.”

“A protocol?”

“Yes.”

Quatre looked away for a moment. “Hm. That is an…interesting choice in words, Agent Merquise.”

Something in his tone completely rankled him.

“Why do you call me that?” Zechs blurted.

Quatre turned back around. “What, by your name?”

“You called me Milliardo before.”

“So you do remember.”

Zechs felt taken aback.

“What—I— _of course_ I remember, I was fucking there.”

Quatre looked at his lap. For a moment Zechs wasn’t sure he was going to say anything, that this dinner was over and that the breakfast buffet tomorrow was going to be a _nightmare_ , when Quatre started speaking to his thighs.

“I…I’m not doing great with it. It just hit me a few days after the fact, you know. We were _used_ , Zechs. Body and mind we were used. And I just…it just…” he took a shaky breath. “I’m just not doing…well.”

Zechs felt the instinct to snarl something biting. If Quatre was his underling it would’ve been out already, something like _man up, shut up, you are a_ soldier _–_ some variation of the theme.

Zechs found himself grimacing instead.

He took a breath through his nose.

And his stomach muscles slackened, somewhat.

“Are you…they offered us use of the health services department.”

Quatre nodded, looking away. “Yes. I’ve been once or twice. Usually I like therapy, actually, so I don’t know why…” He looked back at Zechs. “It just felt strange, I suppose.” A soft, pathetic smile. “We consented, you know?”

Zechs shifted in his seat.

“We consented, and, and we were considerate with each other, and, and it was _nice_ , but.” Quatre was biting his lower lip.

“It just wasn’t your _choice,_ ” Zechs supplied. Quatre shifted, staring into his eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed.

Zechs looked at his glass of wine.

The words were wriggling around in his gut, an uncomfortable bundle of worms. _Choice_ . Yes. He hadn’t – he hadn’t spent much time reflecting on things. Because it was easier not to, because it was over, because a lot of reasons. He had things to do. Not here though. Here he had nothing to do, and Quatre was _here_ . For the second time it occurred to him that it might not be a coincidence, and he rankled all over again. Was this some new set up? Is that all this was? Force him to talk to Quatre, and what – _mend_ things? God, what he would do for his cell phone. All he wanted to do was call Major Po and _scream_ at her.

“I heard about the intern.”

Zechs’ gaze snapped onto Quatre. “It was nothing.”

Quatre shrugged. “Seemed that way to me.”

“He was _fine_.”

“It’s not like they poisoned him with weaponized sex gas.”

“I—“

Zechs stopped talking. His eyes went wide.

“Yes.”

There was more silence. Zechs didn’t know what to say. Quatre sighed.

“Well,” Quatre said. “I guess I’ll go up to bed.”

Zechs watched him stand. A feeling ripped through him.

“I’ll go with you.”

If Quatre didn’t want him to, he didn’t object, and they both started the walk back toward the hotel. The hottest part of the day had passed, and a pleasant breeze blew through the resort, ruffling the palm trees. He couldn’t tell whether they were real or not, but a part of him didn’t want to look too closely. It was easier to pretend they were real. Or fake, or – it didn’t matter.

Neither spoke as they entered the lobby. Then as they moved to the elevators and waited for one to arrive. Stepping in, Quatre pressed the button for the top floor, and Zechs sighed under his breath, opting to see Quatre to his suite before heading back to his own room. He looked at the numbers above the top of the doors, illuminating in turn.

There was no one else on the floor when they got out onto Quatre’s level. Slipping out the keycard as they got closer, Quatre finally cleared his throat.

“Were you – “ he started to say, drawing Zechs’s attention. “Were you planning on coming in?”

Zechs wasn’t sure.

“Not really,” he admitted. Quatre nodded. He paused, right in front of the door to his rooms. There was a plaque on the wall giving this suite a name. Zechs cleared his throat.

“Are you…are you here for long?”

Quatre looked at him. “Unsure. You?”

“Unsure.”

Quatre nodded again. “Do you…” he started to say. “Do you want to spend time together tomorrow? I’ve nothing to do.”

Zechs considered this. Maybe the breakfast buffet wouldn’t be so bad.

“Sure.”

Quatre found him at the chafing dish full of scrambled eggs the next morning. They filled plates, picking a table near the windows, where they drank coffee and read newspapers. Zechs spoke only the one language with any competency while Quatre appeared to speak several, so he helped translate when Zechs grew bored with the only paper he could read on his own. They decided to go to the pool after, so Quatre went back to his room and came back down books from his suite, and Zechs found one or two he had some mild interest in.

At the pool Quatre settled into a lounge chair with his stack of books, wearing sunglasses and again forgoing a shirt. He was still as well built as Zechs remembered from before, which was good, because it wouldn’t do for Quatre to be letting his physicality go.

Zechs stripped to his swim shorts and dove into the water, appreciating the empty space. He did laps for awhile, then stopped, mostly because he was bored. He paused in the area closest to Quatre’s spot by the pool, holding his weight on the edge of the pool.

“You’re not going to swim?”

Quatre appeared to startle out of a train of thought. “What?”

“I asked – you’re not going to swim?”

“Oh. I – I suppose.”

Zechs wiped his mouth with his hand.

He watched as Quatre stuttered into motion, standing, looking around his space, taking off his sunglasses and putting them beside his belongings. He looked around again and found his bag, the same tote from the day before, and he unbuttoned his pants while reaching for it. Quatre slid off his pants and folded them neatly on his lounge chair, then slid his hand into his hair as he turned toward Zechs, presumably to get into the pool.

“Stop.”

Quatre looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You – “ _Tsk_ , didn’t he see? Zechs frowned and planted his hands on the side of the pool, pushing the rest of his body to solid ground.

The water rolled off him as he walked towards Quatre, hitting the warm tile and absorbing immediately. There was a fluffy towel sitting on a table and Zechs grabbed it, drying his face and hands. Quatre was still staring at him, immobile, when Zechs reached for Quatre’s tote, dumped the contents onto his lounge chair, and picked up the sunscreen.

He held it up for Quatre to see, and Quatre’s smile was small.

“Oh.”

Zechs raised an eyebrow as he squirted way too much into his hand. “Oh?”

“I – “ Quatre laughed. “I can get someone to do that for me. Thank you, I nearly forgot.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Turn around.”

Quatre bit his lower lip, appearing to think for half a second, before he did as he was told. Zechs slapped the lotion onto Quatre’s shoulders, unable to remember the last time he’d done something like this for another person. It must’ve been a while, because at first he was probably way too gruff, annoyed at the way the sunscreen wouldn’t rub immediately into Quatre’s skin, having to squint to see where he’d already applied. He still had a ton left over when he’d finished with Quatre’s back, so he reached over Quatre’s shoulder and smeared the rest on his chest, making Quatre startle and laugh again, soft, like he was shy or something. Shy? Goodness. Zechs had fucked the man twenty different ways. There was nothing to be shy about.

“I’m assuming you can see to the rest,” Zechs said, gruff, and Quatre nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Zechs sat on the nearest lounge chair, still dripping onto the pavement, his hair a leaden weight behind his head.

“I can’t believe you never cut it,” Quatre observed, rubbing lotion into his neck and chest.

“Hn,” Zechs acknowledged. He often got comments about his hair.

“Is it hard to swim with it like that? We could probably find you a bit of ribbon.”

“I don’t even notice it,” Zechs spat. Part of him visualized the ribbon and wondered if it might, in fact, be a good idea. “And it…it increases my neck strength.” What he didn’t want to say is that he really liked the way it felt sliding through the water behind him, streaming like a cape. Or a sheet. A veil. He’d had it up yesterday at the beach because ocean waves tended to be unpredictable, but in this still, azure blue pool, with no one else in sight…

“I’m going back in,” he announced, and Quatre looked up at him from where he was rubbing lotion into his thighs.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

They swam like that for awhile, first for aerobic exercise, then for fun. They figured out that Quatre needed exactly six meters’ head start to exactly match Zechs’s time for a single length of the pool. And that Quatre could hold his breath for longer. And that they were both having trouble sleeping now, most nights.

Having worked up an appetite, they got lunch together, drinking more cold wine with fresh bread and cold soup. The concierge recommended a nearby hike, which took up most of the afternoon but made them sweaty and dusty, so they parted ways to shower and clean up for dinner.

It had been…an enjoyable way to pass the time.

He hadn’t hiked with anyone in a very long time, is probably all it was. Noin could keep up with him sure, but they so rarely…well. He appreciated that Quatre could keep up with him, so there was that. He appreciated that Quatre pointed out that one bird with the green feathers, because he might’ve missed it. And that Quatre didn’t make a big deal when Zechs took off his shirt at the summit and twisted up the fabric, soaking it with water, and putting it against the back of his neck to cool off. Quatre had pointed out that it was a good idea; he’d done the same.

Zechs found himself studying the clothes Po’s assistant had packed for him, wondering which would best suit him for no earthly good reason. In the end he snarled and ripped a shirt off its hanger, buttoning the short-sleeved linen shirt while ignoring his own reflection. It was hot and muggy out, so he twisted his clean hair up into a coil at the back of his head, pinning it roughly in place.

People sometimes asked him about his hair. It was usually a sign that they were stupid or just not smart enough to be afraid of him, and either way he didn’t usually answer. But he just…he liked it. He liked the discipline of maintaining it; of the daily brushing, and the long showers, and the study of haircare products. Partners loved it too, honestly. Noin would run her fingers through it constantly, pushing it out of his face, mindlessly braiding little bits while she watched some movie and he read with his head on her lap. It was just…his.

Quatre looked up when Zechs entered the dining room, hovering near the maître-d and looking fresh-faced and clean. He broke into a smile when he saw Zechs, and something about it made Zechs’ heart start beating a little faster.

“Ready?” the attendant asked, when Zechs approached, and Quatre nodded without turning away.

“I think so.”

They walked in silence, side by side, to their table.

“You look nice,” Quatre observed. Zechs breathed in through his nose.

“Yes, I showered.”

“Hm,” Quatre hummed, pleased.

“You look…”

Quatre smiled at him, teasing. “Yes?”

“Also…clean.”

Quatre laughed, softly, and they took their seats.

“What do you think you would do if you had your phone right now,” Quatre asked, conspiratorial, and Zechs picked up his menu.

“Book a flight home.”

Quatre laughed again, leaning back in his chair. He smiled as the next attendant showed up at their table, flashing a bottle of wine, filling two glasses and leaving the rest.

“You know, it’s not so bad here,” Quatre argued, picking up his glass of wine. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll extend my stay.”

Zechs snorted. He didn’t look up, reading.

“We could, you know.”

Zechs decided to order the pork shoulder. Or the halibut. Honestly he didn’t fucking care. “Could what.”

“Probably, we could stay here indefinitely.”

Zechs put down his menu, frowning. “What?”

Quatre was looking at him, humor somewhat…hardened, almost, like he had something on his mind. Quatre took another big sip of his wine. “I’m just saying, that, we’re probably in a position to make some requests.”

The last few things Quatre said caught up to him. Zechs furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

Quatre paused for a moment, before sighing through his nose, still looking at him with a strange, flat expression, his menu untouched. He tilted his head to the side. “You don’t think this was some sort of set-up?” he asked. “I mean,” he wet his lips, “of all the gin joints in all the world…”

Okay. Strange metaphor. But no. He’d thought about this. “Major Po wouldn’t do that to us.”

Quatre raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, she – “

Zechs paused. Hadn’t he thought about this? This…well. Of course it had…

But it wasn’t like… And Quatre said that…

No. It had to be coincidence. Because—

“Maybe it would be nice to retire,” Quatre murmured, and when Zechs looked at his face again, Quatre was staring into the sunset, legs and arms loosely crossed, his glass of wine still held in one hand. Zechs had no idea what to say. He watched as Quatre took another sip, absent, trying to think about the way Quatre had been laughing and joking a second ago. What had happened? Had he done something? The shift between them was palpable, and Zechs had _no idea_ what to say.

and not for the first time, but maybe only the second or third, Zechs wondered if the same demons that plagued him also plagued his friend.

“What are you talking about,” he grunted, again, and Quatre looked at him.

“I’m talking about the fact that we’re probably in a position to request more than a tropical vacation in the middle of the year.”

Zechs frowned.

“What?”

Quatre put down the glass. “You called it protocol. I’m not sure a lawyer would see it the same way.”

Zechs rankled. “A—a _what?_ Quatre, what the –“

“Forget I said anything,” Quatre said, brushing his hand through the air. The waiter showed up, and Zechs handed over the menu without looking up. “I’ll have the fish,” he ordered, and he barely heard the trite response. Quatre was a bit softer in his own request, smiling softly at the girl taking his order. The smile disappeared when the waitress did.

“You’re talking to a lawyer?” Zechs asked, snide.

Quatre frowned at him, a sorrowful slant to his features. Like he was disappointed, or something.

“No, Zechs.”

Zechs reached for his wine. He took a long sip, having no idea what it was.

Quatre waited until he was finished. “I’m just saying that we _could_ , is all.”

“It was protocol. It was—“

“ _Milliardo._ ”

Zechs stopped moving. Quatre sat up straighter.

“It wasn’t. And if it was – God, there are _limits,_ Zechs. There _should be limits_ . And—“ The server returned, too quick, putting a bowl of warm olives and cold, preserved vegetables on the table between them. Quatre stopped what he was saying so he could be polite to her again, and Zechs felt some of his ire abate. When they were alone again, Zechs let Quatre look at him. “I’m just saying. It wasn’t _right,_ Zechs. It just wasn’t _right_ , okay?”

The words settled in him, quieting his anger, until…until they were like stones, slotting carefully into place in his gut.

It wasn’t _right_ …

“It was…wasn’t it…it wasn’t so terrible, though, was it?”

Quatre was looking at him, and his expression was…just sad, now. Just sad. “No Zechs, it wasn’t.” And then he did something ridiculous – he reached across the table, and put his hand on top of Zechs’s.

And Zechs didn’t immediately pull away.

“It was the _choice_ of it all,” Zechs whispered, and Quatre turned back around to face him. His look was mostly distant, aloof. Just the tiniest level of unease creased the fair skin around his eyes, and that…the sheer _understanding_ in his eyes just…

Zechs looked away.

Dinner consumed, wine gone, Zechs and Quatre walked back towards the elevators again that night, not speaking in much the same way they hadn’t before. The silence wasn’t necessarily awkward, just…quiet.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” Quatre asked, somewhat bravely, and Zechs lifted his head.

“Of course not.”

“Another day in paradise,” Quatre mused, dry, and Zechs snorted.

The elevator doors opened.

Zechs and Quatre stepped in, turning, Zechs pressing the button for Quatre’s floor again, while Quatre used the empty space to stretch his neck, tilting his head to either side.

“You alright?” Zechs asked.

Quatre nodded. “Just stiff I suppose. I think it’s been awhile since I’ve been _this_ active.”

“What do you mean? You still work out.”

He nodded again. “Yes, but, not usually like this.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know. I like yoga most days. Fencing, pilates. There’s a form of martial arts I practice with the maganacs that I find to be quiet therapeutic.”

“Like tai chi?”

“Something like that.” Quatre grinned. “The maganacs like breaking things and showing off more. It’s more like capoeira. Or arnis.”

“Ah,” Zechs nodded. “Well,” he said, watching the elevator numbers light up. “Whatever it is, it’s working.”

It took a moment to realize that the silence that stretched between them was…amused.

But when he _heard_ Quatre’s grin, Zechs looked over.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Quatre answered. “I think you just called me attractive? I’m relatively sure that was a compliment.”

Zechs’ neck warmed.

“It was an observation.”

The elevator doors opened. Quatre’s smile grew. “I’ve had worse. Not from you, but, in general, I’ve had worse attempts at flattery.”

“I said it was – “ The warmth had spread to his face. “Nothing,” Zechs snarled. “Forget it.”

Quatre laughed and got off the elevator, and Zechs followed.

“You want to come in?” Quatre asked, not turning around as he badged open the door. “I have plans for the mini bar tonight.”

Zechs considered his options. He didn’t really have a reason to say no besides, well, he and Quatre weren’t exactly friends. Prospective, infinite boredom won out. “Fine.”

He heard Quatre sigh as the door opened, and Quatre started flicking on lights. The suite was massive, with lots of lush, breakable-looking furniture everywhere; there was a small kitchen, a separate wet bar. Too many fresh flowers. “Mini bar” was a clear understatement. Quatre was already opening cabinets.

“Any preference?”

“No.”

Quatre pulled out a bottle of clear liquid and some glasses. He added ice, then poured for each of them. “My bartending skills are legendary, let me tell you.”

“I can see that.”

Quatre’s gaze raised to Zechs’s face, eyes alight. “Was that…was that a joke?”

Zechs frowned, sitting opposite Quatre at the bar. “I make jokes.”

“No you don’t,” Quatre grinned. He lifted one of the glasses up in a toast. “To more jokes,” he said, and Zechs picked up his own glass, clinking it against Quatre’s.

He drank.

The liquor burned on its way down, not unpleasantly. It had been a while since he’d drunk so aggressively. Wine, cocktails…maybe this what people of leisure did.

Quatre was refilling his glass. He walked around the bar, taking the next stool, his knee bumping into Zechs’s. Neither acknowledged the proximity.

Maybe Zechs could be a man of leisure.

“Well? What should we talk about?”

Zechs looked down at his glass.

“Work, I guess.”

Quatre groaned, a kind of sigh. “Perhaps later,” he hedged. “What about – well, I’m not exactly sure what you do for fun.”

“I—“ what did he do for fun? “I—do…things.”

Quatre ran his fingers over the lip of his glass. “Did you know that I play the flute?” he asked.

“I…did not.”

Quatre nodded. “I haven’t picked it up in ages. Actually—“ his lip quirked, somewhat rueful. “Well, Trowa is quite proficient at the violin. We used to, well…we used to play together.”

“That sounds…nice.”

Zechs looked down. Quatre’s knee was still touching own, and Zechs wasn’t pulling away. Was he drunk? He felt vaguely drunk. He should mention his attempts to learn the guitar.

“God it was, actually,” Quatre continued, apparently oblivious. “Am I surprised that they seem to be entwined, really? I haven’t picked up the instrument since Trowa and I broke up.”

Zechs grunted.

“You play no instruments?”

Zechs shook his head. “Some piano. Not well.” He decided he definitely wouldn’t mention the guitar.

Quatre was looking at him. “There’s a piano here, you know.”

“I wouldn’t play it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

Zechs took another strong sip of his drink. “No. Not unless I was significantly more drunk.”

Quatre laughed. “That can be arranged.”

The conversation petered into silence.

“Well,” Quatre said. “Your turn.”

Zechs winced. His turn? God, he hated this. He didn’t like conversation much in general, for some reason. For some ludicrous reason. It just shouldn’t be – _this_ – hard.

“How…” he started to say, still cringing. “How many men have you killed.”

It took a moment to realize the silence was not going to end right away. Quatre was staring at him with very wide eyes.

“Are you…are you serious,” he said. “That’s – you want to talk about the men we’ve killed?”

Zechs was cringing so hard. “…Yes,” he grunted. Fuck, this was impossible.

Quatre looked away, inhaling. “Well,” he started to say. His blue-green eyes were still open wide, like he was thinking too much at once. He stared into the middle distance. “Apart from the obvious; the whole, Gundam pilot thing…I – I pushed someone out of a Aries once. I am relatively certain he didn’t survive.”

Zechs snorted, swallowing the last of his drink.

“I—“ Zechs started to say, trying to think of something to add, too many coming to mind.

And…suddenly, he didn’t feel like talking about this anymore.

“Well,” Zechs said, looking at the ice cubes in his glass. “We’ve both. Well.”

Zechs looked up, finding Quatre staring at him, his expression strained.

“I know,” Quatre said.

And it occurred to Zechs, again, that he and Quatre were more alike than he ever gave credit.

“You said you talked to the therapists,” Zechs asked, softer, his meaning completely changed again, and Quatre was shaking his head before Zechs even finished.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I—I know it’s important. I just—“ He winced. “I just – I have a hard time. I just find I’m having trouble with _trust_ , lately.”

_Trust?_

That word cracked through him.

_Trust_ –

Zechs’ mouth opened, wanting to say something. He closed it again. “You,” he tried, hand tightening on his glass. “You can…trust…me.”

Quatre looked at him. “I can?”

Zechs’s lip pulled back, showing his teeth. “Yes. We were in there together. Our experience is the same. We can – we can trust…each other.”

God it felt so _stupid_ when he said it like that. They’d been _soldiers_ – had done so much worse than what they were dancing around mentioning now. So they’d fucked. So what? So they’d fucked a lot, somewhat compulsively, but – but surely – there’d been _worse_ –

Quatre was moving. Zechs was halfway to drunk so he was slow to realize that Quatre was moving towards _him_ , and Zechs was straightening too slow to stop Quatre from putting his hands on either side of Zechs’s face, gently angling his jaw so that Zechs was looking at him.

“I think – what I want is – “ Quatre was looking into his eyes, the wide, blue-green orbs own darting back and forth, and Zechs’s heart rate lurched. “I want it to be our choice.”

Zechs felt his own eyes flare. What? Oh god – he was – _Quatre was_ – Zechs’s heart was beating so fast, now. Quatre was _propositioning_ _him_ , and – he felt blood rush through his body.

Was he interested? On first glance no – _no_ – because he was so ridiculously careful about separating personal and professional life, and his professional life typically dominated, and over the last few months, he’d been nearly fanatical that it take over everything. Looking at Quatre now, he couldn’t even remember the last time that…jesus.

His gaze darted to Quatre’s lips.

“Say yes,” Quatre murmured, and his thumb brushed against Zechs’s cheek.

Zechs felt his heart beating against his rib cage. Say yes?

“ _Say yes,_ ” Quatre urged, and his body leaned closer, into Zechs’s space.

Maybe. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe they could say that he was drunk. Because what he was thinking about, was seeing Quatre on the beach. Of seeing Quatre walking down the mountain in front of him that afternoon. Of seeing him in the office two weeks ago.

Zechs completely forgot what he was supposed to do.

His arm lurched out, wrapping around Quatre’s back and yanking him toward his body. Their lips met imperfectly, neither completely ready for the press of their kiss, maybe. They figured it out within moments. Zechs’s mouth was full of Quatre’s breath and it tasted of alcohol.

_Say yes_ , Quatre begged, his arms twisting around Zechs’s shoulders, blood rushing everywhere through Zechs at once. He couldn’t help the memories that filled his brain: the two of them in a hangar with dog posters on the walls, forced into fucking each other endlessly after thinking they were going to die. It hardly seemed fair then. It was definitely unfair then. And now – _and now?_

Quatre dug his fingers into the hair at Zechs’s scalp, turning his own head to find a different angle. Zechs groaned. His skin felt the ripple of pleasure from Quatre’s fingers, from his mouth, from the way he was pressing into Zechs’s body. Quatre was shorter than him, and perched on the barstool, their heights were similar now.

He remembered what a competent lover Quatre had been.

Zechs groaned again, pushing off the barstool to stand, Quatre’s hands dropping, hanging in midair, wrists resting against Zechs’s broad chest. Both their lips were wet as they broke apart, breathing labored, staring at each other with a tenacity that would probably make others uncomfortable.

“Our _choice_ ,” Quatre urged, and he slid his hands to either side of Zechs’s torso.

Zechs felt his gaze soften.

“Our choice,” he agreed…as…drunk or not…Quatre slid his hands into Zechs’s…and he gripped one…and as Zechs let Quatre lead him towards the bedroom.

Was…was this what Agent Po had in mind?

Fucking Quatre was…was a living memory, or something. Zechs remembered every mannerism, every noise, with the same delight of finding some long-lost object. They kept the lights on and dim in the room, and skin to skin, kneeling between Quatre’s thighs while Quatre lazily stroked himself, preparing for Zechs to enter him…Zechs remembered. He remembered all of it.

Leaning down to kiss him, slathering his dick with lubricant…Zechs inched inside of Quatre, and remembered.

Zechs woke up the next morning with sunlight squeezing around the edges of the thick, heavy curtains. It wasn’t hitting his eyes, but it was clearly there.

He didn’t have to reach out to know that he was alone.

But…he did anyway.

He opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the limited light. He’d fallen into a dreamless sleep after, Quatre’s body tucked into his own, until not even the air conditioning had been enough to get in the way of how hot it was pressed against another human.

_Just stay_ , he’d heard Quatre mumble, and he was drunk, and satiated, and didn’t want to leave anyway.

Quatre was gone now.

Zechs lifted his head off the pillow, looking around. The pile of books on the nightstand was gone too. The suitcase that had been in the corner was missing. Zechs knew without having to investigate that Quatre had gone.

And then his eyes alit on a folded notecard, on the opposite pillow. There wasn’t enough light, but Zechs picked it up, eyes scanning it even as he had to blink the sleep from his gaze.

He read it a second time, the words registering.

Zechs felt himself staring at it for probably too long, holding it above his head.

Trying to figure out how he felt.

_Thank you_ , the note read, and Zechs held it between his fingers as he pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was having a hard time processing everything that had occurred in the past two days. What he was feeling. How this had even come to pass. How it had all started while hovering over a pot of hazelnut-flavored coffee two weeks ago, Quatre larking into the break room, all surprised to see him, talking about some project that would have him using the same floor of the office for awhile.

_Thank you_.

Did he feel better?

God, he…did.

_Fuck_ he did.

His muscles were loose, his mind…relaxed.

_Choice_.

Zechs ran a hand through his hair, letting his fingers tangle in the strands. Yes. It had been…their choice, and now it was their turn…

To decide what to do about it.

Zechs Merquise opened his eyes.

And decided to get out of bed.


End file.
